Before the Dawn
by Gaerwn
Summary: It's a perfect storm: News from home wrecks hearts and the Gestapo's just a little too close for comfort. Picking up the pieces has never been so difficult.
1. Chapter 1

_Before the Dawn**  
**by gaerwn_

"_Rage, rage against the dying of the light..."_

* * *

Snow glittered like diamonds in the moonlight. The dead of night was near bright as day, as the full moon shone on the fresh snow. Driven by a brisk wind, snow danced in the air, swirling and drifting on cold wind; tree branches rattled like old bones in the breeze. The forest wasn't silent - far from it, as the wind buffeted all that stood in it - but the sounds were, finally, natural and the blue-clad figure huddled in a depression in the snow under the branches of a drooping tree could breathe a little easier. The shouts of men, the snapping of branches, and the shuffling of snow flying as they ran had eased into relative stillness.

The mission was completely shot but at least he hadn't been caught. Yet. Corporal Peter Newkirk was not a man who often looked at the silver lining. He cupped his bare hands in front of his mouth and blew on them before rubbing them briskly together. Somewhere in the mad scramble, he'd lost his thick gloves. He was pretty sure it was at the point where he'd taken a nice tumble down an embankment; whether it was before or after his back had made such lovely contact with the log at the bottom was a question he'd never find an answer for. At least he still had his heavy greatcoat. In uniform, he could have managed to at least not be shot on sight if he'd been caught with the downed flyers he'd come out here to pick up; that would have still left him in quite a predicament and he'd rather not have to put the whole operation in danger because he wasn't quick enough to keep out of German hands.

Beside that, he had his prior commitments to Stalag 13. It just wouldn't be right to end up prisoner of another stalag.

He wasn't far from camp now. An hour's walk maybe but he was unwilling to move just yet. If the patrol was anywhere near, he might inadvertently lead them back and that would have been worse than simply getting caught.

... And he stayed put because his back was killing him. Every movement sent a sharp slice of pain shooting through his back, shoulders to hips. His knee was starting to complain, a dull ache that had him favoring his right side slightly, and he was pretty sure his wrist had taken a lovely sprain. At least the cold was keeping the swelling down. It also kept him from feeling the scrapes across the back of his hand - or even the tips of his fingers, really. Probably not a good thing.

It was that thought more than anything else that got him moving again. The colonel could probably explain away a prisoner freezing to death not an hour's walk away from camp with an escape story - it still wouldn't be a successful escape, so that would stand at least - but Newkirk would rather not have him have to do it. Still, trying to think of what the colonel might say at a eulogy kept his mind busy. The colonel wasn't one to speak ill of the dead, but Newkirk had a feeling he'd slip in a few good-natured remarks here and there. He managed it well enough to Newkirk's face, after all.

He kept his hands stuffed deep in his coat pockets as much as he was able. He felt unsteady on his feet, back and knee both complaining loudly, and found himself reaching out for branches or tree trunks to help ease his way through the snow. The one good thing about heavy patrols in the area was that even new-fallen snow sported tracks and the disturbance shouldn't raise any suspicious brows. Just in case, he'd be sure to mention tracks in snow near the tunnel entrance and see if the boys could manage to make them look a little less conspicuous.

It seemed as if he had no sense of time anymore as he walked. (Or, well. Hobbled, in point of fact. There was a part of him that worried over the injuries; the rest of him - the practical side - told him to shut it and quit thinking. It was just the cold having its way with him.) He kept as sharp an eye as he could manage on his surroundings, ready to flatten himself into a snowdrift at the first sign of trouble. Doing so, though, meant he had to take some concentration off of walking, which in normal circumstances would be fine. Tonight, it meant he flattened himself in a snowdrift once or twice completely by accident. He was almost surprised by the old stump that served as an entrance to the tunnel.

Almost, because he was too weary to actually register emotion.

His hands were shaking so badly that he fumbled the entrance; the lid slipped through his fingers and closed again with a soft thud. Peter muttered a curse under his breath. Served him right, really, if he ended up freezing to death right here next to safety because he couldn't get in the bloody tunnel. Snarling at it - and at his hands for good measure - he finally managed it.

Getting down the ladder was a whole other story. At least he got inside and pulled the door closed over him before he stopped, shaking hands white-knuckling the ladder and slowly trying to stretch his knee in a vain attempt to convince it to cooperate. He didn't notice anyone come up behind him until a large hand settled in the center of his back, just below his shoulder blades.

Kinch removed it just as quickly when Newkirk hissed and drew away from the touch. His hand wrapped firmly around Newkirk's bicep, giving the Englishman an anchor that he sorely needed as he hung onto the ladder for what felt like dear life.

"You're late." Kinch's voice was warm with concern.

Newkirk very deliberately unfurled his fingers from the rung of the ladder. Now his hands just hurt; he couldn't even feel the cold anymore. "I'm freezing." At least, he tried to say that. His teeth were chattering too hard, and his voice stolen by exhaustion, to make much more noise than a breathy whisper.

"I noticed." Kinch was steadfast, not moving and not forcing Newkirk to move until he was ready. He glanced up at the closed exit. "Just you?"

Newkirk forced words past chattering teeth. "Bit of trouble out there."

"No kidding." Kinch squeezed his arm and then left for a moment. Newkirk turned his head ever so slightly to watch him pull the cord that would alert those upstairs that they were needed in the tunnel. Wonderful. That's all he wanted was an audience while he tried to navigate a ladder.

So what he needed to do was get off the ladder before anyone else got down here. Newkirk gingerly put weight on his knee again and started his descent. Still slow and he was grateful - though he'd never say it - that Kinch came back in time to steady him at the bottom of the ladder. Mindful of Newkirk's earlier hiss at the touch on his back, Kinch kept his hands on the corporal's shoulders as he guided him toward the bench just off the ladder.

Newkirk sat, unwilling to even put up a token argument against being manhandled. Kinch knelt in front of the bench and, almost absentmindedly, began rubbing Newkirk's hands between his.

Which, of course, had Newkirk hissing and pulling his right hand away.

"Now what?" Kinch pulled his hands back and frowned.

"Took a fall." Newkirk took a breath, trying and failing to still the chattering teeth and all-over trembling.

"That what happened to your back, too?"

He tried for a cocky grin; it didn't quite get there. "Just a bruise, mate." One very large, very painful bruise, but simple bruising nonetheless.

Kinch's frown didn't ease, dark eyes critical as he took in Newkirk's slightly battered state. "You're soaked through."

There was a moment of silence; Newkirk stared at Kinch, shivering and miserable, and answered in as deadpan a tone as he could manage. "Yes, I am, mum."

His reward for it was a quick, bright smile. Kinch reached for Newkirk's shoulders. "The coat needs to come off."

Newkirk snorted; he wasn't so far out of it that he couldn't take his own coat off but Kinch helped anyway. There was a soft clatter of footsteps in the tunnel before Colonel Hogan appeared next to Kinch, worry and confusion marring his brow as he reached to pull Newkirk's sopping wet coat off. Kinch took it and hung it on one of the many hooks near the entrance.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Hogan said as he laid a hand on Newkirk's shoulder, "but weren't you supposed to come back with a couple RAF guys?" He peered into the corporal's face, then nodded once as if something he saw there put him a little more at ease. (Newkirk, after a moment's thought, decided it might be that he sported no signs of concussion; he, somehow miraculously, hadn't hit his head anywhere.)

Newkirk folded his arms across his chest and hunched over. He shot Kinch a grateful look as a blanket was settled over his shoulders.

"It's warmer in the barracks," Kinch said in a low undertone.

Hogan nodded and gently clapped Newkirk's shoulder. "I'll get Carter moved. You," he told the corporal, "tell Kinch what happened out there." With one last pat on the shoulder, the colonel jogged back upstairs.

Kinch looked expectantly at his still-shivering companion. Newkirk stared back through half-lidded eyes. He was too miserable for this. "Patrol," he said. "Be a toss up whether they take those boys to nine or come here."

"You got away, then."

The look he gave Kinch was sarcasm in and of itself. "Usually try that first."

Kinch held out his hand. After a moment, Newkirk took his right hand from the folds in the blankets and held it out for Kinch to see. The sergeant winced at the scrapes along the back of his hand, then carefully probed Newkirk's hand and wrist. "Nothing broken," Kinch said. His patient offered a rakish (and weary) grin. "What happened?" he asked.

Newkirk pulled his hand back; it needed bandaged but there was plenty of time for that. "Lost my footing." He gestured with his left hand, slicing through the air at a downward angle. "Went down a hill. There was a lovely downed tree at the bottom."

Kinch shook his head, amusement lighting his eyes. "I'm gonna have to talk to the Colonel about sending you out on simple things. Wasn't it just last week that a patrol almost picked you up?"

"That wasn't my fault."

"Exactly. You scared up a rabbit and the noise alerted 'em."

"That rabbit was a Nazi. Still say we need to turn it into a nice hasenpfeffer 'fore it rats us out."

Kinch shook his head, concern giving way to relief as Newkirk's voice grew stronger. It seemed that just a few moments of rest, out of the cold and away from the stress of a patrol on one's heels, was doing wonders. "Come on. There's only a couple hours 'til roll call. Colonel's getting Carter's bunk cleared for you."

He grunted, but allowed Kinch to help pull him to his feet, blanket falling discarded to the bench. On his feet, Kinch allowed him to wait a moment before steering him toward the ladder that led up into the barracks. "You want to get changed down here?"

Peter snorted. "I'll manage. Not so bad that I can't just shrug off my jacket and boots and grab a kip."

"You sure?" Kinch nevertheless didn't want for an answer and steered a still-limping Newkirk toward the ladder.

"I am." He gingerly tested weight on his knee and let out a breath when, though it still hurt, he could put nearly his full weight upon that leg. He grinned at Kinch. "It's not so bad. Just needed to catch my breath."

"And warm up a little." Kinch frowned and kept his hand under Newkirk's elbow as they reached the ladder. "That wrist needs wrapped up."

"If you don't mind," he replied as he carefully stepped onto the ladder, "I'll happily let you take care of that as soon as I'm layin' down."

The bunk opened above them and, between Kinch and Hogan both being somewhat over-solicitous, Newkirk was soon enough sitting on the edge of Carter's empty bunk. He glanced up at the hand hanging down from the top bunk. Hogan snorted, dark eyes lit with laughter, and tucked Carter's arm back under the blanket.

"Figured he'd be awake," Kinch muttered as he bent to help Newkirk work the wet laces on his boots.

"I don't think he actually woke up when I moved him." Hogan took Newkirk's jacket from him and hung it on the bunk-post. "He muttered something about rabbit collaborators and hasanpfeffer on his way up."

Newkirk gave Kinch a lopsided grin. "Told you."

Kinch replied by pulling Newkirk's boot off; Peter reached down and stripped his sopping wet sock off his foot. There was a sigh of relief as he dropped the sock onto the boot, then turned to start working at the laces on his left boot one-handed. Kinch swatted his hand away. At Newkirk's affronted look, he merely raised a brow and said mildly, "I don't want to be here all night while you try to unlace this thing, all right?" He nodded toward Hogan. "Have the colonel look at your hand while I'm doing this." Newkirk's expression went flat and Kinch added, "that could be an order, Corporal, if you need it to be."

"I am not an invalid."

"You're one-handed, bruised all to hell, and still shivering," Kinch replied, gaze cutting to Hogan as he said it, and Newkirk suddenly understood exactly what he was doing: giving a report to the colonel in such a way that Newkirk couldn't exactly argue any of it. "The way I figure it, you're lucky that patrol didn't pick you up, too."

Yep, giving a report. Newkirk snorted as he answered Hogan's wordless gesture and held up his right hand. "They didn't want to follow me down that hill."

"Don't think I would have, either," Hogan commented absently as he grasped Newkirk's forearm and turned the back of his hand up. Newkirk very carefully didn't flinch as he palpated the wrist. "It's a little swollen but I don't think it's too bad." He reached across to the table, where the box that served as a first aid kit (which usually resided in his own locker) rested. He pulled out a long strip of bandaging and set to work on Newkirk's wrist, careful to keep from aggravating the scrapes across the back of his hand.

For a few moments, Newkirk simply sat there and let them do as they will. He understood worry and the ways people responded to it, but he also wasn't infinitely patient. (Nowhere near it, in point of fact.) As soon as the bandage was tied off, he pulled his hand from the colonel's grasp and started fussing with the blanket. "I'm sleeping." He pulled the blanket back and nearly kicked Kinch's hand away. "Leave off. I'll get it."

Kinch clasped a strong hand over his knee, glared at him, and pulled the boot off. With an inarticulate grumble, Newkirk reached down to take care of his own wet sock. "Sleeping," he muttered and shoved his cold feet under the blanket. Kinch held off from pointing out that his pant legs were still damp after a look from Hogan.

It took Newkirk a minute or so to find a position that didn't hurt - his back was stiffening up - but when he did, he drifted off quickly. He took note of Hogan sitting on the corner of the bunk, near his feet, and talking quietly to Kinch, then fell into dreamless sleep.

* * *

Hogan started under the hand at his shoulder and came straight from blissful rest to uncertainty. He blinked sleep out of his eyes, tense and definitely just this side of coherent, and found Kinch grinning at him.

"Roll call, sir."

Hogan blinked at him. "Huh?" The reply was about as eloquent as his muddled thoughts and it took him a moment to realize he was still in uniform, rather than sleep-clothes, and definitely not in his bed.

And there was a hell of a crick in his neck.

LeBeau appeared, neck craned to peer over Kinch's shoulder. "Coffee?"

"Please." At last, a real word. Kinch held out a hand and Hogan accepted the help to move from leaning against a bunk post to actually sitting up. "I fell asleep." He was getting more coherent by the second. How he had fallen asleep sitting up, leaning against a post, he'd never quite understand.

"Nearly mid-sentence, sir." LeBeau materialized again to push a steaming mug into Hogan's hands as Kinch spoke. "Though I'm sure Newkirk will thank you for keeping his feet warm."

Hogan glanced at the still-sleeping man.

"He's fine," LeBeau said before he could ask. "We wanted to let him sleep." He shrugged. "He's cranky in the mornings anyway."

"Yeah." Carter peered down from the top bunk. "No one wanted to face that."

Hogan took a sip of coffee and rubbed his face. "I can't believe I fell asleep right where I sat."

"You must have been really tired, sir." Carter sat up, blinking sleep out of his eyes and confusion settling in his expression. "How did I get up here?"

"Supervised sleepwalking," Hogan replied. He stood and stretched, crackling rippling up his spine as he finally straightened. "Time?"

"Ten minutes until Schultz comes in here."

Hogan nodded and handed his coffee off to Kinch, then bent to shake Newkirk's shoulder. "Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty."

The corporal made a noise that sounded suspiciously like "get stuffed." Hogan rolled his eyes heavenward and prayed for patience. He needed it to deal with cranky noncoms. "Roll call in ten minutes."

"He can get stuffed too," Newkirk mumbled, accent as thick as the sleep in his voice.

"You'd say such things to an enemy? Newkirk, I'm shocked." Hogan flipped the corner of the blanket back and lightly tapped Newkirk's shoulder - over and over and over again. If his man was going to be a child about getting out of bed, Hogan was going to be a child about waking him up. It might get him a nice telling-off here in a minute but it would be worth the look on Newkirk's face when he realized what he said to the colonel.

Not-quite-awake people were fun to mess with sometimes.

"Oh, sod off." Newkirk moved to swat the hand away, probably not even realizing who he was speaking to, and then stopped abruptly with an indrawn breath. His eyes flew open. "Oh."

He must have really stiffened up in the two hours since he'd laid down. Hogan crouched to put himself into Newkirk's line of sight and watched with no small amount of amusement as confusion, realization, and mortification all flitted across the corporal's face. (He, however, was not amused by the undercurrent of pain through all of it.) "You were saying, Corporal?"

Newkirk blinked. "Sod off, _sir._"

"Much better." Hogan patted his shoulder lightly. No hard feelings. "There's coffee."

"Oh, good." Newkirk accepted a hand to help pull himself into a sitting position. He hissed, sitting hunched over his knees, and allowed himself a moment or two just to breathe. "Ow."

"How bad?"

Newkirk peered up at Hogan and grimaced at the audience he had; it seemed every person in the barracks was watching him try to convince the muscles in his back to quit spasming. That was enough to spur him to putting on a damn good front. "Fine, sir. Just a bit stiff is all."

Hogan believed that. Really. "Someone needs to actually look at your back," he said softly; only Newkirk, Kinch and Carter, who were nearest, heard the statement.

"It's really just bruised," Newkirk answered just as softly.

"Humor me," Hogan said and dropped Newkirk's boots on the floor next to him. "They're still a little damp," he said a bit more loudly. "Kinch had them next to the stove, but..." He trailed off with a shrug.

Newkirk nodded and, with a grunt, pulled the boots close. After a moment's consideration, he simply began to shove his feet into them, socks be damned. (They'd just get wet anyway.) Kinch reached out to lend a hand and received only an irritable growl for his trouble. He sat back, hands held up, and mouth twitching in an effort to hold back a smile.

Hogan choked back a chuckle; if Newkirk was cranky, he'd be fine. It was one of the many things they'd come to learn while stationed in the camp. He looked up as the door blew open, immediately filled by the girth that was the sergeant of the guard.

"You're early."

Schultz brushed snow off his shoulders and gave Hogan what was almost an affronted look. "I walked fast."

"Too cold for even you, huh?" Hogan clapped him on the shoulder. "Still snowing?"

"Ja. It is too cold for the Big Shot, too," the guard continued. He leaned toward Hogan, speaking lowly as if he was passing confidential information along. "He is too busy sneezing to get out of bed."

Hogan raised a brow. "What about roll call?"

"I am to do a head count in the barracks."

Muffled exclamations from the men followed that statement but Hogan's attention was drawn to Newkirk, who was staring at Schultz as if contemplating how much trouble he could land in if he chucked one of his boots at the guard's head. Hogan caught his eye and tilted his head in silent reproval. Newkirk turned one hand palm up and gestured to the wet boots he'd just shoved onto his feet. Hogan grinned at him and turned back to Schultz. "All heads accounted for, Sergeant."

"I will do the counting, Colonel Hogan." And Schultz did just that - at least right up to the point that Carter, still on that top bunk near the door, noticed something.

"Hey, Schultz. What's in your coat?" Carter leaned over, fingers clumsily questing for the corners of paper sticking out from under Schultz's topcoat. Schultz swatted at Carter's hands, but failed to noticed LeBeau taking up the cause. "Are those envelopes?" Carter continued.

LeBeau pulled the bundle free and held it up high while Schultz sputtered. "Our mail, Schultzie?"

Carter turned the most pitiful gaze he could muster - which was considerably pitiful - onto Schultz. "Weren't you going to give those to us?"

Schultz reached for the bundle; LeBeau danced away. "They are here. I am here. Of course I was going to give them to you. Give those back!"

"They are ours," LeBeau returned, then passed them off to Colonel Hogan.

"Shame on you, Schultz," Hogan said, shaking his head. "Keeping letters from the men."

"Colonel Hogan..." Schultz sputtered, then huffed loudly. "I have brought the mail."

Hogan grinned while untying the bundle. "Thanks, Schultz."

With another huff, Schultz left the barracks - and he'd forgotten to actually take a headcount. Not that anyone was missing, for once. Hogan shook his head and began to distribute the letters. It wasn't often that everyone in the barracks ended up with at least one letter - there was always someone who didn't get an envelope once in awhile; letters tended to be staggered well enough to almost guarantee that - but this time, every man had one.

The barracks descended into chaotic chatter as men tore into their letters and shared tidbits of home with each other. Garlotti called something about his family's restaurant doing well, to which LeBeau responded with something (probably good-natured and slightly unsavory) in French. Mills cracked up laughing, sharing bits of a story about his younger brother. Carter had jumped down from the top bunk and perched on a bench at the table.

Hogan stuck his letter in his jacket pocket - it was from his dad and he'd read it in due time. He tended to like to savor those in relative peace and quiet. Right now, he preferred to watch the happy chaos that mail call usually brought. Oh, once in awhile, there would be bad news from home but for the most part, this was about the happiest he got to see the guys and he rather liked it.

It took him a few moments to realize there was a voice he wasn't hearing. Newkirk's rasping Cockney was usually laced in amongst the comments, always with something to say about whatever tidbits of others' lives that floated through the air. Hogan blinked at the absence and his gaze sought out the English corporal. Still seated on Carter's bunk and damp boots still on - that was a bit surprising, all things considered - Newkirk read his letter with an expression that bordered on blank.

Hogan watched with narrowed eyes as Carter noticed the lack of response from his friend; Carter moved to sit beside Newkirk and, after a whispered conversation, Newkirk pushed himself to his feet and crossed toward the tunnel entrance. If anyone else noticed him descending into the tunnel, they said nothing. Carter folded his own letter into fourths and carefully placed it an inner pocket in his jacket.

Then he clasped his hands, rest his elbows on his knees, and stared at the floor. The movement of the bunk entrance closing caught Kinch's eye; he looked first toward it, then found Carter, then his questioning gaze settled on Hogan, who shook his head in consternation.

Whatever had just happened, Hogan didn't know what it was. Oh, he could guess but he dearly hoped that the first few things that occurred to him were wrong; Newkirk's home had taken beating after beating and there were days when Newkirk's worry for family and friends had him restless and short-tempered. If something had actually happened...

Hogan cut those thoughts short. No sense in borrowing trouble, and he was a firm believer in not prying unless absolutely necessary. Hopefully, this one wasn't necessary. When Kinch nodded toward the bunk, Hogan shook his head.

Let Newkirk go for now. He had exactly twenty minutes before Hogan tracked him down himself; if nothing else, his back still needed seen to. It would give Hogan a good enough excuse to seek him out before long.

* * *

_tbc..._

_Author's Note: A general note now, before we get into the meat of the story: This one will deal with some fairly dark themes now and again as I delve into both external and internal issues with the guys. While I do enjoy the light-hearted nature of the show – and I have a few things in the works that are humorous and light-hearted – this story explores some of the harsher realities of war, including grief and loss. _

_That said! This is my first foray into longer, more plotty fiction in this fandom. I tend to deal in one-shots, but sometimes the ideas take hold and I gotta go with it. Questions, comments, concerns, you know where to find me. :) _

_-gaerwn_


	2. Chapter 2

_Before the Dawn  
__Chapter Two_

Hogan was on his way out of his office just as Andrew Carter was coming in. Eyes downcast and mind obviously somewhere else, Carter didn't even bother looking up as he held up a fist to knock on the door. Hogan, upon opening the door, put his hand up in front of his face, palm out and managed a bit of smirk at Carter's confusion when his fist hit skin rather than the rough wood of the door. "You knocked?" Hogan said, dropping his hand.

Carter blinked, looking at his hand for a moment as if it had betrayed him, and then turned his eyes toward Hogan. "Sorry, sir."

Hogan stepped back and motioned him inside with a jerk of his head. "Come on in."

With a manner more befitting a startled rabbit rather than a technical sergeant in the USAAC, Carter scurried inside the office. Hogan closed the door after him and turned around, good-natured and questioning expression falling into concern as he regarded Carter.

The sergeant stood at the desk, leaning over it and fingers tapping the wood quietly. He seemed more intent on staring down at his hands than looking up at his commanding officer. Hogan frowned; Carter was never the most outspoken of their little group, but he was rarely timid either. He came to the opposite side of the desk and propped his hip against the edge, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his jacket. "What's up?"

Instead of answering, Carter sighed and clasped his hands together - then stared at his thumbs.

"Carter?"

"I don't know if I should be doing this, Colonel."

This time, it was Hogan's turn to look confused. "Doing what?" There was another sigh and something clicked in Hogan's mind. He hesitated only a moment before asking; private matters were just that, but if something had shaken Carter to the point of seeking him out, then all bets were off. "Does this have something to do with the mail call earlier?"

Carter's sigh was tinged with relief this time and he finally looked up Hogan, stricken. "If anyone asks, you noticed first and forced it outta me."

The colonel raised his brows. "All right." He paused and then added, mostly for Carter's benefit, "and by anyone, you actually mean Newkirk, don't you?"

"Oh," Carter said, "you actually did notice first."

"Yeah," Hogan replied, "and now I'm about to force it outta you if you don't actually start talking."

Carter looked down at his thumbs again, took a deep breath, and started talking. "You know about Newkirk's niece, right?"

Hogan's mind ground to a halt; breath caught in his throat. Something ihad/i happened. Those worst imaginings that he'd roughly shoved aside earlier reared their heads again. "Abigail," he said, voice carefully neutral. "He's never met her." He added it almost as an aside, mind already working. If they were speaking of little Abby, then something had happened to either Mavis or, God forbid, the little girl herself.

Carter looked up, expression almost as stricken as if he were speaking of his own family. "He never will."

Silence fell, heavy and dark. Hogan closed his eyes. It wasn't the first time someone had received bad news from home, but it struck him every time - and every time it was one of his core command crew, he felt a piece of his own heart wrench painfully. But this time, for it to be a child... He took a breath, gathered himself, and spoke. "How? Do you know?"

Carter nodded and looked back down at his boots. Hogan found himself hoping against hope he'd say that she took sick. That would be easier to take than anything else that crossed the colonel's mind. "I guess there was a real bad night a couple of months ago. I dunno if Mavis couldn't get to a shelter or..." He trailed off. "The letter didn't say."

Hogan pressed his lips together. His hand found the edge of the desk and he held on tightly - too tightly, really. "You saw the letter?"

"I have it." Carter looked sheepish. "He left it on the bunk. I didn't think he'd want the guys to see it."

_You're a good kid, Carter_, Hogan thought. "No, probably not," he said softly. "What about his sister?"

"She wrote the letter," Carter said, "but she was banged up a bit." Probably more than a bit, all things considered. Carter reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded piece of paper, then held it out to Hogan.

He hesitated before reaching for it. "I don't think..."

Carter cut him off. "Sorry, sir, but I think you should. I mean... the guys are gonna find out sooner or later. No one can keep a secret around here and you of all people should probably know what's going to be going through Newkirk's head, right?"

Hogan sighed; he couldn't argue that very well. He unfolded the paper. _Peter, I'm telling you this because I love you enough that I can't keep the truth from you. This is one of the hardest decisions I've ever had to make and I hope you can forgive me for it._ With a sigh, Hogan closed his eyes again; no, he couldn't. Carter may have an argument for it but Hogan couldn't do it. He opened his eyes, caught the ending of the letter: _Please be safe, Peter._ He sighed and folded the letter; he considered it for a long moment before handing it back to Carter. "He probably knows you have it."

"Yes, sir," Carter murmured as he took the letter.

"Do you know where he took off to?"

Carter shook his head. "Sorry. He just said he needed a minute."

Well, that's understandable. Hogan nodded, lips pressed together. This was the tricky part, handling the fallout of such news, and no scheme or plan was going to ever help this one. For now, though, there was no mission looming, no special projects making themselves known. There was always something to do, though, so if that's what Newkirk needed, Hogan could - and would - oblige.

"Sir?" Carter said it hesitantly, trepidation filling his voice. "You don't think he would have..." He made a motion vaguely in the direction of the fence, brow furrowed.

"Taken off?" Hogan shook his head. "He'll keep his head, Carter. Knowing him, he's down in the tunnels somewhere, looking for something to keep him occupied." Hogan didn't doubt his own words, but there was a small part of him that honestly did wonder if perhaps Newkirk hadn't gone out the emergency tunnel for a few minutes – and a few breaths of free air – despite the early hour. If nothing else, practicality should keep the corporal inside the wire, or at least down in the tunnel. It was cold, still snowing, and he was wearing wet boots.

Right. Maybe he should go find Newkirk. He wasn't always the most practical of men, especially when upset.

Hogan took a step forward and dropped his hand on Carter's shoulder. "There's a few places topside he might have ended up. Why don't you go check 'em and try to get him back into the barracks? LeBeau's gonna have something warm cooking before too long and he'll need it."

Carter's brow furrowed before understanding lighted his expression. "The mission? How long was he out?"

"All night," Hogan answered. "A patrol got to the boys before he did. He spent some time dodging them."

"What do we do?"

At that, Hogan grinned, though it was tinged with a sort of resignation. "You go do what I just told you to do. I'll have Kinch make a few inquiries and we'll find out where our wayward boys in blue were taken. After that, then I'll figure out what we're going to do."

"Right, sir." Carter hesitated for just a moment before heading back toward the door. Just before leaving, he turned back. "Colonel..."

"Everything's fine, Carter. Go, would you?"

With a nod, Carter scurried out the door and Hogan took a breath before following himself. Kinch first, then the Newkirk problem. After that depending on what, if anything, Kinch found, they would see.

* * *

Kinch found him first. He expected someone to, before long, whether they were looking for him or not. Hardly a day went by when someone wasn't in the tunnels somewhere, working on something, and the radio did need monitoring. Newkirk hadn't been hiding, not really; he'd gone down below and, in an effort to keep his mind clear of disturbing images, he'd set to work making a few repairs to the civilian clothes and uniforms they kept below. Problem was that they were all in pretty good repair at the moment, a by-product of a few days' of downtime last week. Newkirk sat at his table, contemplating a coat in fairly good repair, and wondered if perhaps he'd be better off to take out a seam just to repair it again.

If it kept the all-too real images of broken bodies away, he'd do it and never once regret it, extra work or sprained wrist be damned. He tapped his fingers against the tabletop, looking down at the fabric and refusing to let his mind wander. Instead, he catalogued every thread, every seam; he ran his hand over the lapel of the heavy overcoat and let himself focus on the feeling of the wool, rough against his palm. The coat was a dark navy, one of the ones he'd used time and again on his own missions. It fit well - and why shouldn't it, when he made the alterations himself? - and it was warm. Better than anything he'd ever had back in London.

Funny how that worked, really. Here, in prison for all intents and purposes, he had access to better material than he'd had while free on the streets in his hometown. Oh, he could have got his hands on something like this then - and had, once or twice, before he'd been forcibly set upon a straighter, narrower path. Mavis hadn't been at all happy with him.

She was the younger of the two, by three years, and he'd grown up trying to protect her from the world; he'd never quite succeeded and it was Mavis who usually ended up covering for him, more often than not. He tried to think that she'd become stronger for it and, hand stilling on the coat, he hoped that was true.

"Hey."

He nearly fell out of his chair when Kinch spoke. His hand curled into a fist, the heavy wool caught between his fingers and breath caught in his throat.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

For a moment, all Newkirk was cognizant of was his own too-fast pulse thudding in his ears. He held up one hand, an acknowledgement to Kinch's presence, and took a moment to force himself to simply breathe. Deliberately, he uncurled his fingers from the coat and smoothed out the lapel before turning to Kinch, expression carefully shuttered away to something blank and neutral. "Hello." That came out sounding a little breathless; he sighed. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize. Pretty sure I just made you jump out of your skin." Kinch crossed the room to prop a hip against the table. "I'm glad you weren't armed." The twitch of his lips underscored the weak attempt at a joke.

Newkirk snorted. "Me too. Might have shot myself, the way I startled."

Kinch tried to laugh at that, but gave up after a weak chuckle escaped. Arms crossed, he looked down at Newkirk with a frown, eyes narrowed a bit. "You okay?"

He waved a hand. "You lot worry too much. It's not the first fall I've taken." He knew full well that probably wasn't what Kinch meant. He'd been aware of the scant attention he'd garnered while upstairs. He'd spoken to Carter, a few whispered sentences, and he'd seen both Hogan and Kinch watching him leave the barracks by way of the tunnel entrance.

There was a pause and Newkirk thought Kinch might pursue it, but then the sergeant sighed and nodded. "Well, yeah." He quirked a brow. "I seem to remember an incident with a fire escape and a dumpster."

Newkirk couldn't bring himself to actually laugh at that; he remembered it all too well and the look on Hogan's face when he'd caught whiff of the guy he'd have to spend a couple hours in a car with had been priceless and near worth the whole thing. One corner of his mouth quirked upward, but it was more a grimace than a smirk, and it dropped quickly. Best he could manage.

Silence reigned for a moment. "You sure you're all right?" Kinch asked.

"Leave off." Newkirk's tone wasn't especially heated but the meaning was clear: he wasn't going to talk.

Kinch took the rebuke in good grace. "The colonel's about to round up Wilson and go looking for you. You might want to make an appearance."

Newkirk stared at him. "It's ibruises./i"

"Don't tell me." Kinch chucked a thumb over his shoulder. "Tell them."

"I have." Newkirk turned back to the coat and, once again, smoothed his hand over the lapels. His fingers caught on a button and he turned his full attention to it. It seemed a bit loose; could use some repair work. He thumbed the button, then turned to his sewing kit, picking through needle and thread.

"Peter." This time, Kinch sounded concerned.

He didn't look up. Didn't answer, either. Just pulled two spools of thread and compared them with an inordinate focus.

"Peter."

Still looking at the thread, he answered in a flat voice. "Leave off."

Kinch sighed. "All right. I'll leave you to it - whatever it is."

After a moment, Newkirk put the spools of thread down. He didn't look up but he didn't need to to know that Kinch was still standing right there. He was practically looming, radiating concern and curiosity in no small amount. "I'll go find the colonel, all right?" There was a hard edge to his tone and, no matter what he did, he couldn't soften it.

"You do that." Kinch, bless him, didn't respond in kind. He pushed off the table, apparently unwilling to press any further. It was just as well; Newkirk was perilously close to snapping and they both knew it. "Let me know if you need anything, all right?"

Newkirk grunted an answer, tossed the spools back into his basket, and slipped past Kinch. The sergeant sighed and made his way toward the radio.

* * *

Kinch knocked lightly on the colonel's door and only waited the moment it took Hogan to answer it before he slipped inside the colonel's quarters. "Message from the London," he said, holding up a small piece of blue paper.

Hogan looked up, brow furrowed. "About our downed boys?"

Kinch shook his head. "Not yet. No one has any information on that." He nodded toward the paper. "Looks like we've got a request for a meet."

Hogan hummed under his breath as he read the message. "Help training new faces, huh?"

"Yeah, it's pretty vague, but…" Kinch shrugged. "We could always use the help."

The colonel folded the paper and tucked it into a pocket. "Call in the guys. Far be it from us to ignore a call for help."

Kinch hesitated for just a moment. "All the guys?"

Hogan's brow furrowed and he nodded. "Yeah." When Kinch didn't leave right away, he elaborated. "I'm not at liberty to say much, all right? Wilson's seen to him, gave him a clean bill of health, he's had breakfast, and he's still part of this team, his general mood notwithstanding."

"That's not just moodiness, Colonel." Kinch glanced toward the closed door, as if he could see beyond it. "You didn't see him down in the tunnels earlier."

"No," Hogan allowed, tone thoughtful. "But I know what caused it." Kinch looked at him sharply, curiosity shining in his dark eyes before he caught himself. "And I'm not blabbing," Hogan continued pointedly.

Kinch winced, looking chagrined. "Sorry, sir." He turned toward the door, but Hogan's voice stopped him.

"Hey Kinch?"

The sergeant looked back, hand on the door.

Hogan's expression was genuinely understanding, a hint of concern marring his brow. "He got bad news from home."

Kinch winced. "Regular bad news or war bad news?"

Hogan's snorted softly at the phrasing. Used to be that bad news was bad news; now, they had to specify whether someone got sick and died or they ended up on the wrong side of an enemy gun. "War," he answered.

Kinch's dark eyes closed and his jaw clenched. Shoulders drawn tight and frame taut, he took a deep breath before he spoke again. "Damn." He took another breath, and Hogan forgot his intention not to blab when faced with the genuine sympathy in Kinch's eyes. "His sister okay?"

"Alive," Hogan answered. "Probably not okay."

Silence fell. Kinch's brow furrowed as he pondered that statement. There were a few ways he could take it, but Hogan watched the gears turning, watching understanding and trepidation blossom in Kinch's expression. "Sir, you're not telling me…"

He nodded, arms wrapped around himself; usually a gesture given absentmindedly while thinking, now it seemed as if he was simply trying to remain calm, even-keeled.

"Sir," Kinch said slowly, "I'm going to need you to say it, because I'm thinking the worst and that's not what I want to be hearing."

A quiet part of Hogan's mind informed him that he was contributing pretty well to the camp gossip that sometimes drove him crazy. He shook his head and forced himself to look away from Kinch's wounded and worried expression. "Go get the guys. We have to run this tonight."

"Yes, sir." Eyes troubled, Kinch left the office and quietly close the door behind him, leaving Hogan alone with his thoughts.

It wouldn't be long before he came back with the other three in tow; Hogan leaned against his desk, eying the small piece of paper in his hand and forcibly shoved any and all personnel issues aside. It wasn't that he didn't care, but he needed them - as much as possible and including himself - to focus on this one. It wasn't often that they were asked to meet with potential new Underground members, but there was precedent for it. All in all, it wasn't the strangest request they'd been handed. The orders alone wouldn't have given him pause.

It was the timing that bothered Hogan: the day after a couple of their boys were picked up, they had a request to meet unknown parties near the same pick-up point. It screamed trap, but London had asked them to meet despite that. If there was a chance it was legit - and there always was - then they couldn't turn away extra hands. He'd have to run this one carefully.

With a frown, he folded the note in half and stuck it into a pocket inside his jacket. He'd like to have Newkirk out there tonight; the man was a damn good shot and might have been able to pick off trouble from out of sight before it really got started, if necessary. He was no sniper, but the RAF hadn't exactly gone easy on training and he'd only gotten better as he realized what he could be asked to do at a moment's notice. LeBeau was nearly as good but he didn't have the same cold resolve when it came right down to pulling the trigger.

Hogan shook his head, wondering to himself when he'd begun debating who among his men was more cold-blooded. They usually managed their missions with a minimum of loss and fuss, but there were times when it was simply unavoidable - and Newkirk was the one who would step up to that particular plate, more often than not. He could make his guesses as to why and he had the feeling a good bit of it had to do with Newkirk's own protective nature shining through - and perhaps a few holdovers from a past that Hogan pretended he didn't know about but London handed him anyway. (They'd been very thorough, his higher-ups, when given the names of Hogan's command crew. They each had a hell of a file on record in London, marked for top-secret eyes only, and Hogan had been nearly ordered to go through them on one of his infrequent visits to London.) But, this time, Newkirk was staying behind, for more than one reason, though he was probably most suited to this particular job.

Instead, he would go himself and take LeBeau. Carter, possibly, but the more men who remained in camp, the better, just in case things did go south. It gave both more hands to evacuate if need be and less chances to be caught outside of camp. He hadn't quite decided on Carter when a light knock sounded and the four men that made up the core team filed into the office. Newkirk was still limping slightly; he came only as far as the edge of the table and stopped to lean against it. LeBeau and Carter filed around to Hogan's far side and Kinch took up a position behind and slightly to the side of Newkirk. The colonel wondered if he was conscious of the fact that he was, effectively, standing guard. Probably; this was Kinch and Kinch rarely did anything without purpose. He locked eyes with Newkirk and, instead of the dull exhausted look he'd imagined, saw an angry fire in the hard lines around his eyes and mouth.

Well. Perhaps he should have expected that. He nodded once, almost imperceptibly, and turned away. A small gesture, simply meant to say _we're here, we're glad you're here._ He turned toward his bunk, pulling a map from under the mattress and unfolded it on the table. "We have a request for a meet. Apparently there's a new unit and they need a helping hand." He tapped the map with a finger. "Here."

It was Newkirk, who had looked at the same point on the same map less than 24 hours ago, who picked up on it first. "That's the rendezvous I was going for last night." There was such a lack of his usual inflection in his tone, the rounded accent a little sharper, that Hogan blinked and looked up at him. The corporal ignored it, then tapped a point on the map not a half-mile from the point where Hogan's finger rested. "Not quite. Close enough for horseshoes and hand grenades."

"Almost literally." Hogan crooked his fingers into his jacket pockets and nodded down at the map.

"That's suspicious," Carter added.

"You don't say," Kinch drawled, hands stuck deep into his pockets. "I didn't catch that when I took the message, Colonel," he said, "but it was London I was talking to. They had the correct codes and I know the hand that sends those messages like my own."

LeBeau frowned at the map. "Someone talked somewhere." He glanced at Hogan. "The flyers from last night?"

"Definitely possible." Hogan tapped the map again, simply thinking this time. "We're coming up on the end of the run for the current codebook. It stands to reason the krauts have picked up some codes here and there. That's just how it is. All they'd have to do is get that those boys were going to be picked up by Papa Bear and then it's just a matter of sending a few messages before London's ordering us out to a meet."

"Well, we can't go out there, then," Carter said, eyes wide in disbelief. "That's just walking right into it. We gotta tell London-"

"That we're not going to follow orders? You want to make that call?" Hogan waited until Carter subsided before continuing. "We're going. If it's legitimate, hallelujah, we were wrong."

"If it's not?" Kinch's voice was quiet, heavy.

"Then," Hogan said, eyes narrowed and looking down at the map, "there's a threat to our operation and the local Underground and we're gonna have to take care of it." Silence met that statement, but the guys were anything but still. Kinch's brow furrowed, Newkirk tapped the map with his fingers, slowly and deliberately. Carter shifted from foot to foot and LeBeau mouthed what was either a prayer or a curse; Hogan couldn't actually tell from where he was standing. "LeBeau, you're with me tonight. Bring a rifle you're comfortable using."

Hogan ignored the way Newkirk looked sharply at him. He turned toward Carter. "Carter…" He hesitated, weighing his options quickly. "I need you here. Set the charges, just in case. Have Garlotti and Mills help you. Kinch, radio and don't leave it alone. Baker can help. I want everything monitored."

"You really think we'll have to bug out, Colonel?"

Hogan eyed Kinch, uncertain in his answer but putting as much certainty into his words as he could muster. "I don't know but I want us ready. Start the protocol. Newkirk," he said and finally turned to the corporal.

Newkirk stared back him, expression hard. "I can-"

"No." Hogan shook his head. "I need you here. Gather up files, maps, everything. I won't be here to do it. Make sure it's ready to go."

There was a split second's worth of hesitation before Newkirk spoke, and his tone was hard-edged and angry. "Yes, sir."

* * *

_tbc_

_I'm updating this a little slowly, I know. I'm being very nitpicky about what I post. _


End file.
